War Talk
by Enchanting Grace
Summary: After a long and bloody battle, two enemies meet on the battlefield. As they sit across from each other, leaning on rubble, the protagonist's enemy pulls out a flask of whiskey and has a heart -felt final talk with the hero, before they die of blood loss. WW2- Centric


_**After a long and bloody battle, two enemies meet on the battlefield. As they sit across from each other, leaning on rubble, the protagonist's enemy pulls out a flask of whiskey and has a heart -felt final talk with the hero, before they die of blood loss.**_

* * *

Spray from the waves strikes my face. I wake like a drowning man, breaching the surface violently. My lungs contract, and suck in a shuddering gasp. I was flying on golden wings, and then there was fire and I was falling, trailing feathers the color of the sun. The dark water of the ocean, heavy and cold as ice, sucking me below the surface…

The dream flickers like candleflame in the wind. It's gone.

Come to think of it, a lot of things are gone. The world, for one.

Am I dead?

It's an uphill marathon just to blink my eyes. Water runs down my cheeks, and everything resolves into edges of blue and grey. I flex fingers heavy as stone, and push myself upright; soggy earth sinks under my palms. It's coming back now - the war, the battlefield. Cautiously, I scan the area. Well, battlefield no longer, it appears; Marche is a graveyard now. It's just me, alone with my thoughts and the duly departed.

Not dead then.

Not yet, at least. I try to stand; Pain draws his rusty knife and jams it between my ribs. Shit. I have a little scream, then examine the area gingerly. The light rain washes blood from my fingers as quickly as it collects. Jacket's been holed in front and back. All in all, I'm lucky; it's clean, with clear entry and exit wounds. Unfortunately, when I move, something in my gut feels distinctly sloshy. I've lost a lot of blood too, the ground's crimson with it.

The rain's bothering me now. It's heavy enough to soak me to the bone, but not for drinking. I try to stand again, one hand clamped tightly over the hole in my side. Bad idea - my head spins, and I almost fall over. Slowly then. I drop to my knees, and crawl the three meters to the nearest corpse. Half the poor soul's face is missing; the other half looks almost peaceful. He has a rifle which is nice, but I'm more interested in the canteen at his belt. I unhook it one-handed - heavy - and fumble the cap off. Water water water. My throat is drier than the Sahara. I gulp it down so fast I choke, and my side protests loudly.

Next, shelter. I maneuver the rifle from under the man's legs. The rifle sinks into the dirt as I drag myself to my feet, using it as a crutch. I turn toward the church, then pause. At my feet, the dead man's one eye stares blankly. I crouch awkwardly, and slip his one eyelid closed. His tags clink together as I untie the cord around his neck.

BRUBECK, ADAM E

31297287 T4 42

1916 COBALT LN

QUEENS, NY

I bow my head, and have a moment of silence for Adam Brubeck.

Raindrops run down his cheek. They look like tears.

* * *

The rough stone walls of the church are mostly intact, and a wide awning offers shelter to parts of it at the base. Using Adam Brubeck's rifle as a crutch, I limp my way across the courtyard, avoiding the bodies. After what seems like ages, I reach the wall, and lower myself to the damp ground.

One of the bodies next to me stirs. I leap to my feet, biting back a scream as my side sings an off-key note of agony. My rifle snaps up and I'm already sighting down the barrel. My breath comes hot and fast in clouds of vapor.

"Relax." The word is stiff, and heavily accented. Against the wall, a figure shifts into a sitting position. The man's face contorts in a wince. He's young - white hair and red eyes, and a ragged uniform cut in the cold, harsh green-grey of iron. An officer's insignia glistens on one lapel.

I level the rifle at his face, and he raises his hands cautiously. "Not going to hurt you," he says in broken English. A flash of pain, half a rueful smile; his chuckle becomes a wet cough. "Don't think I could, if tried."

I force the words through gritted teeth. "Your men?"

"Gone." The enemy coughs again, staining his sleeve with scarlet. "Everyone, gone. Evacuated." He makes a wide gesture. "Or fallen."

"Yeah?" My voice is unsteady, and my hands start to shake. A pressure is building behind my forehead. "How many of them did you put there?"

The enemy is calm, collected. He coughs again, wipes his mouth, and meets my eyes. My knuckles are white against the rifle. "Answer me," I bite out harshly. My voice rises. "How many of my friends are dead because of you?"

A shrug. A lie: "Do not know."

The triple click of steel cuts through the rain as I thumb back the safety. The pressure behind my temples has faded to a pounding sensation; blood roars in my ears. Fury courses like lightning through my veins. "You know," I say mildly, "I can't think of a reason why I shouldn't put a bullet in your head."

The soldier sighed. He looked away, his eyes quiet and full of melancholy. "I have one."

Rage can only be quelled by one force: surprise. "Go ahead."

"Would be waste."

Anger sparks to life again. I gesture around. "And what, they weren't?"

He frowns. "Would be waste of _bullet_." One hand unbuttons his jacket faster than I can squeeze, and he peels away the left side. Ah.

My inner guilt is immediately squashed by anger. "Well I figure it would be a kindness to get you on your way." I regret the words even as they leave my mouth, and I'm annoyed with myself for it.

The soldier nods slowly. "It would. For most." He looks up painfully. "But if it were choice, I would die as friend."

Justice roars a battle cry. "That's nice", I say casually. I pause; I turn to survey the dead; I turn back. The soldier eyes me neutrally. I indicate the Allied corpses. "They didn't get that choice."

The soldier smiles tiredly. "Most of us do not." He nods at me, and I can see his eyes flicker across my bloody side. "But you do."

I drop the casual tone. "Declined," I say coldly.

The soldier raises his hands in surrender. "Your perogative, of course." He indicates to his pocket. "May I?"

The silence lingers. I nod curtly.

"Thank you." The soldier removes a packet, and expertly tips a pair of cigarettes into his bloody palm. "Ach, last two." He offers one. "You would like?"

I pump as much malice into my glare as I can muster.

"No?" He shrugs. A match flares in his fingers; the scent of phosphorus cuts through with the damp of the rain. The soldier takes a long drag. He leans back, and blows smoke into the rain. Icy water falls into my collar and runs down my back. I shiver.

The soldier exhales another breath of smoke. "For the love of God, sit at least."

The wind changes, and rain slips through the lining of my trousers and down my boots. I can feel my balls shrinking. _He killed them_ , Dad reminds me. _He's the enemy, Matthew_. He sneers. _A real man would be willing to stand in the rain an hour or two if it kept his country safe_. I tell him to fuck off, but he's already gone. I clutch my rifle tighter, and try to ignore the seeping cold.

"You know what worst thing about war is?" The soldier says suddenly. "Chocolate. There is none. Why is there none? Because we are weapon, tool, pieces and board for them to play with, and pieces do not warrant comfort. And for what? For what do we fight, fight and die?" He shakes his head. "Nothing. We are less than puppets. We are strings only."

I frown. "If that's what you think, why're you here?"

A faint smile plays the edges of his face. "If somehow I not tell you are Canadian until now, is even more obvious." He sucks at his cigarette, and coughs wetly. "I was, ah, conscript. No choice under Hitler. I try to run, to hide. They threaten to kill my family. No choice." He shakes his head vehemently. "I have no love for the Reich."

Silence echoes through the broken churchyard, tarnished only by the sound of rain on soil and stone. Slowly, I lower the rifle.

The rain begins to fall harder. It sweeps down over the bodies scattered like autumn leaves, washing away blood and piss and tears. Where there were soldiers, only men remain.

* * *

I tap ash from the butt of my cigarette. "Where'd you learn English?"

He shakes his head. His cigarette is little more than a glowing stub, now. "Didn't," he replies. I frown. He elaborates, "Didn't learn. Grew up with, in Cornwall. I was seven, we move to Weimar. Me, Bruder. We were poor - everyone poor under Nazis." He pauses, eyes distant. "That was home."

"Well shit, at least it makes a good story." I lean back. "I was born in Yukon. Grass, dirt, cornfields. A very small area. Mom always told us you had to squint real hard, but on the right day you could just see the middle of nowhere out in the distance." I stumble on a train of thought, and run with it. "Kumajiro was the only thing that made it bearable."

He smiles. "Kumajiro?"

"Yeah, he was a keeper." A lump threatens to rise in my throat, and I force it back down.

"My best friend. No question. I could talk to him about anything, and it wouldn't matter."

I don't know where the words are coming from, but they just keep coming, and I don't think I could stop them if I tried. Rain's gotten into my eyes somehow, even though we're under the awning, and I wipe it away.

"We used to drive to Dawson City to visit the Music Festival. He liked Hank Snow and Wilf Carter- I liked La Bolduc and Oscar Peterson. Afterwards, we'd get ice cream and just talk, and watch the sunset from the hill."

"He is waiting for you back home?" he asks gently.

I take a shuddering breath, and exhale heavily. "He wasn't really the sit-around-and-wait type. He'd be sewing, or teaching, or working for Personnel, or something like that. But no, he's not waiting. Last year, I get the letter - some asshole had one too many drinks or something, drove straight into oncoming traffic. Kumajiro was lucky; he ran into one guy head-on. But he knocked him enough that he crashed, and was banged up pretty bad. The highway's totally shutdown, and an ambulance isn't going to get there in time. This guy comes out of nowhere and carries her three miles to meet the EMTs."

I smile half-heartedly. "I guess he wouldn't have made it if it wasn't for him, and they hit it off pretty well when he got out of surgery. He told me he was sorry, and he thought he'd be able to wait, and that he was wrong. He said he wished me the best, and hoped we'd see each other again." I don't trust myself to say anything else, so I just shrug.

He nods respectfully. "I am sorry."

The voice of selfishness suggests I enjoy the sympathy while I can, but I wave his condolences away. "Way I see it, I got three years with a good woman. That's better than most get."

He makes a noise of agreement. I blow smoke rings into the rain, and we enjoy an amiable silence. Finally, I ask, "What about you?"

"Me?"

"You got someone waiting for you?"

"No." He's quiet for a moment. "Vater. My brother. But I think this is not answer you look for-"

I laugh, reigniting the pain in my side. "No, that's fine. Dad and I never really got along. Had a drunk piss on his grave once or twice, in fact." I glance over. "Go on, tell me about yours."

He looks taken aback. "Ah, well, I never really had anyone other. I had a Rivale means rival- did not seem very fond of me. It was hard - little food, little water. Sometime she try to hide her food, say she ate, and save for us later. But she was always generous. Taught me English in Cornwall - made me read and write." His voice is unsteady, and I look at him, surprised. His blue eyes are fogged over with tears. "She got very sick, maybe due to the war, before I came here. Said dhe would wait for me. To come home. I make tea. We play chess. He will let me win, like always."

Tea. Make tea. Something about that reminds me of Major Donovan, and I remember the scotch. I set down my cigarette, and work my boot off gingerly, wincing at the pain in my side. The man watches, uncertainty written across his face, as I upend the boot on my lap. Recipe: one boot, one lazy requisition sergeant, one former-drill-sergeant-promoted-to-major, one bottle of scotch. Mix together, and shake vigorously. A bottle of bourbon drops into my lap.

The man sputters a disbelieving laugh. He wipes his eyes as I empty Adam Brubeck's canteen into the mud and carefully refill it with amber liquid. I toss him the half-full bottle. "Stole this from the desk sergeant in Saint-Emilion before the whole thing went FUBAR. Jackhole was siphoning care packages for the front lines. May he live long enough for Major Donovan to find out and shove a cactus up his ass."

The man grins, and we toast. The whiskey burns down my throat like liquid fire, dampening the pain in my side.

He raises the bottle again. "Another!"

I oblige him, and raise Adam Brubeck's canteen. He pauses dramatically. "To victory," he says emphatically.

We knock our containers like the finest of wine glasses. Steel on glass actually has quite a nice ring to it, at the right time. "To victory?" I ask.

He nods. "We win, my friend."

Confused: "I don't quite follow."

"Is like British Prime Minister say. Mister Chamberlain. 'Object of war is not to win, but to lose less badly.' Something like that." He makes a wide gesture, sweeping the battlefield. "None of them win. They lose." He turns back to me; a clear light burns in his eyes. "We," he indicates to himself, then to me, "we survive. We lose less badly."

I nod, and he shakes his head. "But we win, because we do not forget what we are," he says. "We choose to go as men. Not soldiers."

I find my cigarette and take a long pull. It's burnt halfway down. I raise Adam Brubeck's canteen. "That damn well calls for a second toast."

He chokes a laugh, raising his bottle. We drink. It's still raining, and we watch the clouds change from steel-grey to ink.

Sun's getting real low.

* * *

The false silence echoes strangely, and I look over. His face is blank, controlled - tears streak his cheeks. At any other time, I'd be shocked to see someone like him crying openly, but now I just feel sad and helpless. Then again, maybe I don't even know who he is, really. I don't know what to say. He's obviously not okay, it's obviously not going to be okay, but screw it, I don't really have other options. Never was one much for gallows humor. "You alright?"

His eyes are distant, and they focus on me. "Wh- sorry, yes. I, just-" Unable or unwilling to finish the sentence, he breaks off and wipes his eyes.

I reach over to grip his shoulder. He gives me a warm smile, and a nod of approval. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to. "Hey," I say. "It's going to be okay."

He looks up. "I'm scared." He forces a smile, but he can't keep it there so it just sort of fades. "I did not-" His voice falters. "I wanted to have house. Family. To grow old."

I let the words drift away. "I wanted to be a Hockey Player." He laughs, though it sounds like it could have been a sob. I grin. "You know, hockey? Yeah?"

The smile that breaks across his face is sunlight through the dark clouds. "What is your name, my friend?" he asks hesitantly.

I tell him: "Matthew."

He extends a hand, and the literary critic in me basks in the elegance of the moment. I find myself unable to force down the lump in my throat, and my vision is inexplicably blurred. I nod once. _You're a fool, Matthew_ , Dad mutters. I just smile at him, and shake this man's proffered hand. I don't trust myself to speak, so I just smile.

"Good name," the man says to himself quietly. "That is good name."

"What's so funny?"

"Ach, just." He shakes his head. He draws himself up and sticks his chest out, waving one hand wildly. " _Gnade dir Gott!_ " His exaggerated frown collapses into a grin. "My _unterfeldwebel_ , ah sergeant? I think? He was very fond of quoting your General." He grimaces. "You know, 'I have no mercy for German souls.' Something like that." He shook his head. "We learn to hate you." The man gives me a half-smile. "But you Yankees are not so bad, I think, my friend." He punctuates the statement with a fit of coughing that goes so long I'm afraid he's going to hack out a lung. The coughing cuts out; his head drops back against the wall.

My throat tightens. "Hey."

He doesn't answer.

"Hey." I shake him gently. "Stay with me."

His eyes blink open. They're far away. "Papi? Ich war mit der seltsamsten-"

Realization slams into me like a wave against my cockpit. I shake him a little harder. "I never got your name," I say.

Eyes the color of clear water blink twice. They focus on me. "I am going to miss the sunrise, I think," he breathes.

My cigarette's gone out. My fingers find the matches at his side, and light it again. I smoke the last of it, and flick the remains into the rain. "You go on ahead," I say quietly, and lean back. "I'll catch up."

* * *

 **-After the mission-**

His eyes snapped open and he jumped up, only to immediately wince at the pain that shot through his chest.

 _'There goes that memory again',_ Matthew thought, shifting his weight on the bench. His head was ringing, and his werary eyes were watering as they adjusted themeselves to the sunny object in front of them. Though the prickles stung, he embraced the false sun, embracing its golden radiance, only wincing sharply when a memory resurfaced. He remembered the times when he craved the sun's warmth more than his will to survive.

He couldn't understand _why_ that man keeps appearing in his memories, but he was greatful that it reminded him that was sane again.

"Matt? Are you okay?" Alfred's voice rang with concern, as he scooted closer to him, his hand already incased with supplies.

"I'm fine." He grunted, trying to wave his away with one hand as he covered the newly-healed scars around his injury with Morphine. "I just moved too fast, that's all."

He bit his lip. "Are you sure? I should probably check the wounds, just in case."

"I'm sure Alfred, don't worry about it."

Quietly proud of his younger's brother ability to take care of himself, Alfred released himself from his brother's grasp. Though Matthew knew of Alfred's persistence of wanting to take care of him, he allowed himself to not intervene in his brother's healing process.

The action made Matthew realize how much he loved his brother. It would be startling to him, if he rejected that fact.

Everything about his brother's attributes, made him admire his older brother more and more. His strength, his kindness, and his loyalty, Matthew was fairly sure that if it wasn't for his scarred skin and dark eyes, Alfred would have been the ideal guy to be with. But with the war still going, neither wanting to settle with new conflicts rising up in their lives. Causing them both to make a pledge, saying that they would refrain from romantic pursuits.

Leaning back against the bench, Matthew shook the thoughts out of his head. He didn't want to think of relationships at the moment. He was fairly certain that his brother would scream in fright at anyone-male or female, if they had ever approached him. With the trauma that Alfred endured, it was a miracle that Alfred was _even_ talking to him. But he gladly enjoyed his brother's presence, even if it was out of loneliness and obligation, than anything else.

 _'Loneliness'_ , Matthew thought. _'With all the stresses from the war occupying his life, it makes me wonder if we'll ever be sane again.'_ The war haunts their lives, changing them for the better. No longer was his brother the radiant, hero of sunshine. No longer was he the expressive child, lurking in the background. With the war still on, it mellowed out their personalities, leaving facades and hollow shells in its wake.

Glancing to and fro from the bunker that they hid in, Matthew wished he had a watch; He wasn't sure how long they sat in silence, staring at the red sky and waiting for any sign of the enemy to come. For a moment, he had thought about them going out to a quiet park to mull over these stressing moments, but quickly decided against it. Laughing mirthlessly, he almost relished the thought. Abandoned parks, dirt roads and silenced laughter and joy of families, where would he find that enjoyment on the battlefield? The last thing they wanted, were to be seen glaring at the birds in the ponds, envying their freedom of flight.

He wanted to mull over his cherished thoughts, the ones that distracted him from the horrors of war, when he heard his brother's voice speak again.

"Piano's riffs are bitches to the ears. Deep and haunting at one end of the side, and relaxing and free at the other. It's a wonder that the creator wasn't accused of being bipolar- with all the different sounds he's creating." Alfred's booming voice rang. Alfred's thoughts were always the craziest to understand. Maybe he just didn't notice that his opinions were random, and made no sense.

But if they made him closer to Alfred's original personality, he wasn't complaining.

Matthew's eyes almost rolled, whether out of disbelief of Alfred's statement, or being startled easily, he wasn't sure. "W-what?" _'Damn, he_ was _startled.'_ Looking towards where his brother was, he waited for clarification on his brother's weird statement.

He noticed Alfred's usual pose returned. With one leg sprawled over the other and both arms outreached, Alfred turned to Matthew and repeated his statement. "Those sounds would make anyone crazy. 'Making me wonder why they didn't use it in the war." His voice was so serious, Matthew couldn't imagine that it was real.

"Alfred I",... Was he being serious?

He turned to face him, blue eyes staring straight ahead of him. He forgot how to breathe at the moment, only relying on his brother's intense expression. "Mattie, those rifts make the person attracted towards it. Both calming them down, and scaring them altogether, they just give you a boost when needed."

Attracted.

Matthew's deadpan voice dropped, replaced with worry. "Those sounds made you calm?" _'Alf, is there something more going on?'_

"Yeah ", he mumbled, curling his legs up to him now, and resting his head on top of his knees. Matthew was seriously starting to wonder if Alfred was hallucinating his answer. "They made me calm when I was panicking. When you weren't there... they were the only thing keeping me sane. When you're facing death all day long, it is a nice turnaway to distract you."

God, he really wished he hadn't told him that. Though he didn't know what turnaway meant, he couldn't bring himself to speak, only listening to his brother's words once more.

Turning away from Matthew to look at the setting sun, Alfred's voice turned sullen. "Back out there... on the battlefield. You didn't know if you were going to survive or die. Defect, you be branded as a traitor, killing yourself, you would have been rememebered as a coward. War is a temporary problem to a permanent situation." Though Matthew couldn't detect it at first, he heard his brother's voice cracking. "Like Piano, one wrong move lets out a incorrect tune. It has it deep and angsty beginnings, and its upbeat and soothing endings."

Matthew was unable to speak, staring ahead in thought. He finally got Alfred's point. _'Alf, war is shit. Many sacrifices have to be made, many unpleasent endings being created. I know that even with the words I say, you wouldn't change your opinions. They're just rooted inside of you.'_

He didn't realize that the pain Alfred was going through, that had been Matthew's pain in the past as well. _'Like that fellow earlier. To this country, he was an enemy. I was_ supposed _to hate him. But after listening to his stories of a poor life, rooted only in unfortunate coincedences, it makes me wonder what his riffs would be if he were still alive. Would it have been deep, drowned out and rooted on a grim mountain of uncertainty? Or, would it have been soft, relaxing tunes, masqueraded as pleasures instead of fictions?'_

He didn't know what words to say to his older brother. Alfred was the one who comforted _him,_ always bringing up his hopes.

He finally settled on the correct action, unsure if it was the right one.

Staring at his brother's now sobbing form, he embraced him, feeling his own tears slip down. "Alf, did you hear the Piano's melody? Did you take in those beautifully blended sounds? Those sounds, Alfred...those sounds, they sound ugly on its own. Just shitty tunes that need a 'fixing. But," he said, looking in Alfred's eyes, "when they connect together, with their different strings and spoofs, they make a masterpiece."

He did not care if he played the incorrect notes on the piano. Nor did he bother to check if they sounded well together. What he did concentrate on, was making sure that it ended up with a beautiful melody, no matter its rough beginnings.

He did not stop holding his brother even after his cries were silenced. Neither did he, even after Alfred's heartbeat returned to a steady rhythm. Only when they held one another, both hearing the sounds of their anthems being played, did they embrace the new melody that was created.

* * *

 **-1 Year after the War-**

 _The war had finally ended. No longer were the brothers motivated by fear of them dying. Now, they rejoiced with pride on the other's behalf._

"Matt?" Alfred calls from the driveway. "We gotta go."

"Okay." I take a deep breath. I've crossed the porch a thousand times before. Today, it's a frail bridge, connecting the door to the car. Worlds apart. I know I can only make this choice once.

Do I go through with it?

It's a decision I know I've already made, allowing Alfred to pay for my ticket to guilt my future, resisting self into taking the leap. I've never believed in God, but I do feel once in awhile that some choices are inevitable, that we are mere conduits of fate, and must flow with the current or be swept away.

I do.

I open the door, each step taking me further than I've ever gone.

Alfred doesn't say anything as we drive. He's pretty much the only family I have left, and he can tell something's bothising me - and, truth be told, I'm glad someone knows something's wrong. I'm a riverboat, sucked into uncharted waters with only a waterlogged map to guide me. I have no idea what I'm doing. I have no idea why I'm doing it. After all, why do we do the things we do? What can we do to stay the passage of time, but surrender to its currents and allow them to take us whise they will?

Shit. I sound like a grandpa.

We pull up to the terminal. I unload my suitcase, replace my hat. Alfred gives me a hug. "I don't know how much this means to you," he says, "but it must be a lot."

I just smile. My heart's not in it, and he knows, but it's okay. "Thanks bro."

He nods. "Safe flight."

I set my bags at my side, and watch him pull away from the curb. The next car pulls in, and I turn away. The glass doors await. No rest for the wicked.

The clerk who takes my ticket looks like Mr. Mcconaughy from down the road - steel-grey hair, wrinkled cheeks, kindly eyes. He salutes me crisply. I want to tell him the war's over, and can't anyone see anything othis than a uniform, but I smile faintly and return the salute instead. My destination catches his eye, and he looks at me searchingly. I'm not sure what he sees. I'm not sure what I would see. "Germany, eh?" he says, mercifully low.

I nod, bracing myself for the disapproving look.

"That's funny."

I hate this old man. I hate his kind face, his neutral expression. I hate what he thinks. What he sees of me. He reminds me too much of Dad. I just want this to be over. "Why's that sir?"

He smiles. "I did the same thing."

The tracks disappear from beneath my train of thought. It careens off a bridge, and derails hard into the water. My lips say, "I'm sorry?"

The old clerk taps his chest, where an insignia would be pinned. "'17 to '19, son. Took shrapnel in my leg, and got shipped home. I was one of the lucky ones." He nods at me. "When the war ended, I flew back to Germany. Wanted to see it for myself. What we had done." He touches the brim of his hat. "I hope you find what you're looking for."

The line's already moving again. I don't get to thank him.

* * *

 _I have often said that the lure of flying is the lure of beauty~ Amelia Earhart_

* * *

I spend the whole flight reconsidering. Agonizing over crossing that porch - wishing I'd swallowed my pride and told Susan I wasn't going after all. I waste valuable hours replaying everything in my head, rewinding time and imagining myself turning around at the gate.

But I'm a leaf in the wind, and the inevitability of fate will pull an infinite number of Matthew Williams's over the porch and onto this plane, just as each of them will agonize over the same decision. As each of them will imagine the actions of each other, and know they would never have made the decision any different.

The P-12 shudders under me. I wish I were in the cockpit - that it were my hands on the stick, guiding us through the clouds on steel wings. But I haven't been able to fly since-

 _The water charges at us like a wall of black. We slam into it nose-first and the plane shears like paper-_

I close my eyes, and rehearse what I'm going to say for the umpteenth time.

 _Sir,_

 _There are many things you do not know about the war. You do not know me; you do not know what I have done. You do not what we have sacrificed for what they call a victory, and for what your leaders call defeat._

 _But I will tell you what you know. You know who your son is. You know that he is brave and kind, and undeserving of the hardship thrust upon him by this war - and even amidst that hurricane of violence and harm, he stayed true to the physician's oath he swore._

 _My name is Matthew Williams. I am Canadian, and I served the Priamry Reserve as a pilot and infantryman. The war has ended this day, and my friend Richard Hoffman translates this in Calgary._

 _I met your son for the briefest of moments during the war. We shared stories and a drink. You may find this difficult to believe - I do not blame you. It was difficult enough for me. For him, it was easy to see an enemy soldier as a friend. To him, we were not soldiers. We were all nothing more or less than human._

 _I didn't have a chance to ask your son for his name before we parted. It was by chance that I came across his picture in an intelligence report, and that is how I found you. I need tell you that there is something else you do not know._

 _Your son is not coming home._

 _I wanted to give you the news in person. If there is anything I can do for you at all, please let me know._

God, that sounds so formal. I don't know what the hell I'm doing here. Sarcastically, I tack on a closing: _Sincerely, Matthew Williams_.

We pass out of a bank of white, and shafts of light peer through the clouds. You never get tired of something like that. Never.

Maybe it won't count as rest if I just rest my eyes for a second or two.

* * *

The cabin shudders with the sharp impact of gear-on-asphalt, and I wake with a start to deceleration tugging me against my seatbelt. We've landed. V4 - the point of no return. No going back now.

We disembark, and I make my way through the aeroport. The occupation is still in force, and soldiers are everywhere, the red and blue insignia of the Allies emblazoned on their shoulders. I hail a cab. The driver speaks english - they've all been forced to learn. I don't want to think about that, so I think instead about the old clerk at the departure gate back home, and what he thought I was coming to do. I'm not really sure what that was, what any of them think, actually. The only lies I told Alfred were of omission - I'm going to fly to Germany, and I'm not exactly sure why. He and the clerk share their assumptions. Maybe they think I'm here to atone for something - misdeeds during the war, perhaps. True, to an extent. Maybe they're right, and I'm wrong. After all, I don't really know what I'm doing here anyway.

Weimar is a good 80 kilometers from Leipzig - about 50 miles - and it takes near two hours along the dirt roads. The driver takes me down a narrow street, and pulls up in front of a tall house squeezed between the others. The path is cobblestone, like the street, and a garden has been lovingly maintained in the yard. I swallow the lump in my throat, and tip the driver. He pulls away. I'm alone, again left with my thoughts and the duly departed. Children run in the street, heedless of what has already become history. A nation, healing. I summon their courage and take the steps one at a time, each taking me farther than I have ever been, and farther on a path I know not the end of. I reach for the knocker.

The door opens.

A woman bustles out, radiating an intense sense of matronly strength. Her hair is pulled up in a tight grey bun. She takes everything in - my short hair, my clean-cut clothes, the bright insignia on my lapel - and her face sinks with dismay. "Wilhelm ?" she asks. She already knows the answer.

I nod. I can't speak. I have no words.

A hand leaps to her mouth. She mirrors my nod, once, and indicates to the door. "He's in the bedroom. Second floor. Barely hanging on." Her voice breaks. "Do what you have to."

The door opens slowly. It creaks. The kitchen is dark and mostly bare, save a kettle on the stove. I make my way upstairs. The bedroom door is open.

"Sir?"

His eyes blink open. They're sharp, and the blue of clear water. "Wil?"

I can't look at the chessboard on his bedside table. "No, sir. A friend."

He nods slowly, once. His lips part, birthing broken english. "I see."

Pre-prepared words slip from my mind like water through my fingers. The room blurs, and water fills my eyes. "I- I-"

"I know, son," the old man says. He smiles sadly. "I know."

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 **End of Story**

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 **A/N**

 **Hello. Happy Canada Day! This story took a while to work on, so I hope you enjoy it!**

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 **Like other works, I will provide explanations, so here I go:**

 **1\. In this fic, Matthew has some aminosity to England. Canada is one of the Allied Forces during the second world war which would bring the total of Allied powers in the story to six, is the third strongest Western Power, and contributed a lot in the war, but being under so much British Influence, much of Canada's efforts were considered British efforts, which can be considered a contribution to the lack of awareness towards Canada's efforts during World War 2.**

 **.ca/archives/exhibits/worldwar_canadabritain**

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 **2\. Matthew's personality here is a little tougher here. This is due to the great disdain Canadians had towards Germany and German-Candians during and after the First World War.**

 **Link: .ca/firstworldwar/history/life-at-home-during-the-war/enemy-aliens/**

 **2b. Another look on the German-Canadian History**

 **Link: .ca/en/article/german-canadians/**

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 **3\. I made Kumajiro a human and Canada's best friend. In the anime, he and a selct few of the other nations, are the only ones who recongnize his existence. So, I believe, for this fic, that Kumajiro is Matthew's best friend.**

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 **4\. German Translations:**

 **Bruder- Brother**

 **Gnade dir Gott- May God have mercy with you**

 **unterfeldwebel- under sergeant,**

 **Papi? Ich war mit der seltsamsten- Papi? I was with the strangest-**

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 **5\. Dawson City - Dawson looks like it's still in the 1800s, all tiny period hotels and charming timber barns. The only legal pastimes here are baking pies and sitting on the porch playing the banjo (or so we imagine.)**

 **Oscar Peterson- Canadian Jazz Pianist and Song Writer**

 **Hank Snow- American- Canadian Country Musician**

 **Wilf Carter- Wrote Country and Western-themed songs.**

 **La Bolduc- Wrote Folk music**

 **5b. More Information about these musicians at:**

 **Link: category/by-decade/page/7/**

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 **6\. The man's rival was sick due to her country being invaded during World War Two.**

 **Link: research/scholarly-presentations/conferences/the-holocaust-in-hungary-70-years-later/the-holocaust-in-hungary-frequently-asked-questions**

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 **7\. At the end of the story, the man in bed, represents The Country of Germany and its citizens, trying to heal after World War 2. Since I do not know the specifics of Country Familal Relations, I decided to incorporate the state of a healing nation: damaged and still in need of assistance, but otherwise hopeful, strong, and knowledgeable about their situation.**

 **7b. Because the characters of the story are not represented as countries, but rather as humans, I chose not to represent Germany as the one in the process of healing, but rather a old man, symbolically representing someone in the process of healing.**

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 **If I had made any inaccurate translations, or historical facts, please inform me of them.**

 **Thank you for reading my story, and I hope to see you another time!**

 **~Enchanting Grace**


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